


Inhuman

by Peppermint_Tea_Cat



Category: Deviates from fandom, Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: 1920's, Action, Adventure, Alternate Dimensions, Dragons, Feminism, Healing, I steal a few of the characters and some of the plot and plop them in a new universe, Mostly an original work, Multi, Redemption, What is Morality?, You don't have to have read or watched FMA, cool fight scenes, dealing with grief, deep philosophical content, inter-dimensional cats, kindness isn't weakness, many forms of love, political satire at some points, pyrokinesis, rational people can be kind, recovering from abuse, so many dragons, spirit realm, striving to do the right thing, swing music, who's responsible for fighting oppression?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2019-12-18 15:57:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18253100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peppermint_Tea_Cat/pseuds/Peppermint_Tea_Cat
Summary: In a universe of old-growth forests, dragons, and cats who know things, leader of Amestris Fuhrer Bradley raises an Ishballan orphan as one of his own. He didn't count on her thinking for herself as she grew up, openly advocating against colonialism and mindless violence. Ivy Bradley shocked the country as she warned Ishbal of the impending genocide and fought alongside rebels. Years later, the military offers to clear her of treason charges in exchange for doing a little dirty work. Follow Ivy and the friends she makes along the way on their path toward defending the good in humanity and restoring balance to the universe.





	1. A Subpar Cup of Tea

**Author's Note:**

> Hey so I started posting this work a couple of months ago, then I took it down because I realized I still needed to edit it. I think at least the beginning is ready to share with the public, so let's see how this goes. Just to warn you, if you're a die-hard fan of Fullmetal Alchemist, this story may not be for you. I basically just borrow some of the characters and use the basic plot as a backdrop for my own stuff.

Chapter 1: A Subpar Cup of Tea

 

“Even the strongest blizzards start with a single snowflake.”  
― Sara Raasch, Snow Like Ashes

 

Ivy knew she wasn't off to a great start when she choked on her earl grey in front of the Colonel. She made a mental note of how the young man (remarkably young to be a Colonel) remained still and rigid in his chair, his face betraying no signs of concern. His obsidian eyes regarded Ivy with a mixture of disgust and impatience.

She shook her head and tried to hold back her coughs. They eventually subsided after an uncomfortable few moments in which the two of them sat opposite of each other, Ivy trying not to choke, and the Colonel concentrating on rearranging chewed pens, papers, a typewriter, and a handful of out-of-place chess pieces around his untidy desk.

"You alright?" The Colonel asked after Ivy looked like she was capable of answering. The way he heavily enunciated the word “alright” suggested that he didn’t genuinely care whether or not Ivy was alright. Ivy noticed this, but decided to ignore it.

"This is worse than the tea in prison," Ivy said with mild indignation. She drained the mug anyway, concentrating on not choking this time. Once finished, she made eye contact with the Colonel as she plopped the cup on his desk.

A disgruntled expression flickered across the man's face. Ivy heard him mutter, "I wonder who to complain to about that," under his breath before taking her teacup by the handle and dropping it in the rubbish bin next to his desk. He brushed off his neatly-pressed uniform in disgust.

"So the military changed my identity," Ivy prompted. She tried to ignore the cool air sapping her strength. The Colonel kept his office chilly, and Ivy’s thin grey prison uniform was doing nothing to keep her warm.

The Colonel opened a drawer and thumbed through identical tan folders. "You now go by Cayenne Zakuro. Your background information is in this folder for reference. No one but the Führer and I are aware of your true identity, and you will keep it that way. Understood?"

Ivy nodded, mouthing the name "Cayenne Zakuro." As vehemently as Ivy disagreed with these militaristic bureaucrats, she had to admit that they were decent at coming up with false identities.

"And you need me to stop this... assassin? Terrorist?"

The Colonel pushed papers and coffee cups aside, clearing the path to slide another folder across the desk. "The military is going with ‘terrorist.’” He opened the folder to show a few blurry, haphazard shots of a grim-looking man in a soft yellow jacket and sunglasses. His skin was slightly darker than Ivy’s, and a large scar disfigured the upper half of his face.

The Colonel continued, “We call him Scar after the X-shaped scar on his face, and he’s never corrected us, so the name stuck. Scar has succeeded in taking down over ten state alchemists so far, and will not hesitate to kill anyone who gets in his way. Motives unknown. He weaponized a type of alchemy that stops at the destruction phase.” He pointed at an elaborate tattoo taking up most of the man’s right arm in one of the pictures. “Simple, yet deadly. Not to mention his unmatched combat expertise," he paused. Ivy caught a sign of weakness in his demeanor: for a split second, the Colonel broke eye contact and readjusted his chair. She figured that he was speaking from experience. "And he's getting bolder. The other day, Scar took out the Ironblood Alchemist."

Ivy leaned back in her seat. The Colonel regarded her unusual piercing gaze. Her eyes were a deep red that reminded him of an unsolved crime scene, and they focused on the Colonel with unnerving intensity. The ends of Ivy's lips curled up, exposing an empty grin that belonged on a crocodile.

“I see now,” She said, “You aren't just pitifully desperate. You need someone who is both effective and expendable."

"You bring the terrorist to us alive, you go free. Dismissed."

*

"Do you carry catnip in your pockets, Scar?"

Scar dodged the question by reaching inside his coat and pulling out a neatly-wrapped parcel. Wordlessly, he offered it to the woman standing across from him. The lantern light sharpened his already harsh features, drawing attention away from the slight shifting in his stance and averting eyes.

The close-by patter of rat feet on the floor made the lantern slip out of Scar’s hand. The woman caught it before it crashed against the concrete.

"It disgusts me that we’re forced to hide in sewers and abandoned ruins to survive. Take care of our people for me." Crimson eyes met crimson eyes, and Scar bowed his head. Pebbles the cat wound around their legs, under the impression that the parcel was for him. Scar bent down to scratch the cat behind his ears.

The woman smiled, but in the lantern light, her time-worn face reflected the opposite of happiness. "I appreciate all you’ve done for us, and I hope you realize that it’s not too late to abandon this grief-stricken vengeance quest of yours. I hope you understand that we would welcome you into our camps with open arms.”

"Amestris has stripped our people of our home and families. I need to finish what they started. You owe me nothing but exile," Scar began to speak about how he betrayed the sacred laws of Ishbala as soon as he accepted his alchemical powers, but he stopped mid-sentence. "You need to leave. Now."

The woman stuffed the parcel under her tattered olive green coat. Pebbles stared at Scar accusingly as his human friend stopped paying attention to him.

"The officers searching for me have gone quiet. Knowing the military as well as we do, that doesn't mean they're giving up."

The woman considered this for a moment, readjusting her half-moon glasses. "I'd better get this medicine back to camp before something more dangerous shows up and follows me back. Take this," She handed Scar a hot flat stone on a golden chain, engraved with smooth patterns. It fit in the palm of his hand. "Since you’re not stopping any time soon, you might as well avenge my daughter for me."

Scar nodded and pocketed the small trinket with the intention of inspecting it later. Vengeance. While the path to redemption was forever barred to people like Scar, revenge's path swept him along like a swift current on its way to a waterfall. It was only a matter of time before the search for revenge dragged him over the edge, either to his demise or the point of no return.

*

"Why does it have to be a sewer?" Ivy lamented for the forty-seventh time. The sun hung low in the sky, red-gold shafts of morning light glinting off of Ivy's reflective sunglasses. A family of dragons flew by far overhead, paying as little attention to the city as God would have paid to the genocide in Ishbal if Ivy thought she was real. The wind's gentle warmth penetrated Ivy's layers of ponchos. She let out an irritated sigh. The first time she had breathed fresh air in ages, yet she couldn't enjoy it for longer than an hour.

Ivy, the young Colonel, and a handful of uneasy guards gathered on the edge of the crater in the ground that Scar had created as a last-minute escape route during the military’s latest encounter with him. The hole was large enough to drive an armored vehicle into the sewer. Ivy smiled a bit, for driving an armored vehicle into the sewer after a terrorist sounded impractical and exactly like something the military would do. They probably already tried it.

The Colonel dismissed the entourage, who left with hesitation. Then, the man's full attention turned to Ivy.

"I'm sure you are aware of the security precautions I'm taking to prevent your escape." The Colonel’s mouth twitched up in a hint of a smirk. Ivy didn’t like that at all.

"Let me guess..." She growled, listening to the running sewer water below with distaste, "This cuff on my arm acts as a tracking device with an alchemical locking mechanism that prevents me from removing it? Wait," Ivy’s eyes narrowed and her mouth curled up into a snarl, “If the tea had always been that bad in Central, someone would have complained about it by now. You are the most crucial military establishment in the country, after all. Did you poison me?”

The Colonel’s smirk grew into an infuriatingly cocky grin, his dark eyes glowing with pride in his own ingenuity. "The poison remains dormant in the body for twelve hours. And then..."

"I will need the antidote, which you have," said Ivy, mentally kicking herself for thinking crappy tea could be any crappier outside prison, "Now I understand how you made Colonel so young. No one could have made it so far so quickly without spiking something every now and then."

"Glad we understand each other," the Colonel's cheerful smile made Ivy want to punch something, "Happy hunting!"

Ivy leapt into the hole, showing the Colonel a certain hand gesture on her way down that made his eyebrows raise.

Landing in a sewer is just as unpleasant as one might imagine, if not worse. Ivy would have easily stuck the landing from a 15-foot drop under ordinary circumstances, but she landed in a knee-deep stream of goodness knows what. Her feet slid out from under her, exposing even more of her body to the repulsive liquid. Panicking, Ivy scrambled over to the walkway on the side.

The sound of uncontrolled laughter from above made Ivy's heart sink. That Colonel had watched her struggle, and of course, enjoyed it.

"At least I’m not as useless as you are when I'm exposed to water," Ivy retorted in the Colonel's general direction before ripping off a few filthy layers of ponchos and stalking out of the sunlight.

*

Going into the sewers wasn't Scar's best decision. He reprimanded himself again as he spotted the soft turquoise graffiti on the wall that he had passed several twists and turns ago. "Join or die! Only you can prevent Amestrian genocide," the sign proclaimed. Scar rolled his eyes. What was it with young idealists and sewer graffiti? Organized resistance did nothing against Amestrian military might. His hand subconsciously traced the X on his forehead.

He wasn't lost. Scar had drawn a meticulous map of the sewer tunnels as he walked through them. According to the map, Scar should be on the outer edge of Central City. Clearly, he was nowhere near there. At times like these, the tunnels felt sentient, tracking and manipulating his every move.

A warm, damp breeze brushed his skin. Scar shuddered with disgust, but kept walking. He understood that stopping could be more dangerous than continuing on. The same breeze again, this time accompanied by a sound: a faint gurgling hiss.

Without slowing his pace, Scar anticipated an attack from behind. He prepared a dodge and counter-maneuver.

The breathing, for by this time, he was fairly certain that something close behind him was breathing, fell into a labored rhythm.

Something scuttled toward him. Scar spun around, his arm sparking and poised to strike.

A handful of frightened rats scurried past Scar into the pitch black tunnel. He placed the lantern on the ground, bracing himself for whatever the rats were running from. Meanwhile, Pebbles completely ignored the rats, winding around Scar’s legs and meowing loudly. His pupils were dilated and his tail poofed up. Pebbles gave a final little “Mrrr,” before dashing out of sight.

The tunnel went silent. Scar squinted into the inky expanse before him, the hairs on the back of his neck pricking. Just when Scar began to wonder if he should try and continue on, two tiny red orbs blinked open just out of the lantern’s reach. Whatever-it-was waddled closer, revealing a round lumpy silhouette significantly shorter than Scar, but easily two or three times as wide. A leering grin squeezed the tiny red eyes. Whatever it was, Scar was certain it wasn’t a person.

“I finally get to eat you!” it squealed with glee in the fragmented sounds of the Amestrian language, clapping its pudgy hands together.

Scar held his arm to the creature. “Stay back,” he warned in the rudimentary Amestrian he knew, fully aware that such a warning was likely futile.

Sure enough, the creature lunged at Scar with more speed that he thought physically possible. Scar barely dodged, jumping to one side and attempting to collapse the wall behind him with his arm. The creature knocked him into the ankle-deep stream of filthy sewer fluid. He felt a crack as he landed on his leg.

He struggled to stand up, leaning on one leg. Wiping the blood from his lower lip, Scar regarded the creature standing on the water’s edge. “What in the name of-”

The monster rushed at Scar again. This time, as he pushed himself out of its path with one leg, Scar managed to get a hold of the monster’s flesh with his destruction arm. The monster howled and backed away, collapsing into a bloody mound. The water began to slowly drag the blob downstream away from Scar. He heaved a sigh of relief and crawled to the edge of the water, pulling himself out so he could sit up and inspect his broken leg. Before looking at his leg, Scar glanced downstream at the dark mound of dismembered flesh.

It moved. It pulsated and writhed, re-forming into its original shape. Scar tried to stand, but as he moved, a white hot pain shot from his leg.

“You’re a bad man! That hurt!” The monster whined in its strange, synthetic-sounding voice. It rose to its two fully-functioning feet. Aware that Scar was unable to run, it walked at a leisurely pace in his direction.

Scar accepted death, praying for it to come swiftly. The creature, however, had other, more gruesome plans.

It dodged Scar’s arm and grabbed his broken leg, throwing him into the air. He hit the ceiling, his chest taking the brunt of the force, before splashing back into the water. For a moment, everything was black. Scar tried to breathe as he came to, but his mangled ribs only allowed him to manage sparse, shallow breaths. He opened his eyes and immediately regretted it.  
The monster was once again slowly waddling toward Scar. He was convinced that those two beady red eyes were the last things he would see in this life. How sickening, Scar thought, that this creature appropriated the color that Scar had for his entire life associated with familiarity, love, and security. How ironic that this creature was a product of the government that attempted to exterminate his people, sporting their color. In one last fit of rage, Scar slammed his arm against the floor, yelling what he classified as an obscenity at the monster. If it was going to take Scar down, he sure as heck was taking it with him.

Scar’s battle cry came out as a pitiful whimper as the floor collapsed beneath him. Cracks formed along the wall, threatening to collapse on Scar and the monster. The creature rushed forward, biting into Scar’s torso as it fell. Scar closed his eyes.

Suddenly, the creature opened its mouth to cry out, dropping Scar onto the ground. A pair of much smaller arms picked him up and darted upstream, dodging the falling stone almost effortlessly. The arms set him on stable, semi-dry ground.

Scar opened his eyes. Kneeling next to him, a woman studied the creature and the collapsing tunnel several meters away. She chuckled and shook her head, letting out a shaky breath.

“Some mess you’ve gotten yourself into. Wait here,” She poured something from a vial around her neck into Scar’s mouth, “This will keep you from dying for now.” As the liquid gave Scar’s brain a caffeine-like burst of activity, he wondered why this woman was speaking in an Amestrian accent when she clearly looked Ishballan, apart from her long dark braid. Scar became hyper-aware of small details like the woman’s voice, but his shock and battle fatigue left him unable to process them.

Scar wanted to tell the woman to wait, that if this creature could beat him this easily, no one stood a chance against it. Instead, unable to speak and barely able to breathe, he swallowed the intensely minty liquid, feeling a shock of coolness that suddenly made him slightly farther from slipping into unconsciousness. He helplessly watched the woman sprint to her demise, taunting the wounded monster out of the collapsed part of the tunnel. They would both die in this sewer tunnel, and this monster would feast on their remains.

A flurry of movement that Scar couldn’t follow, and the Thing’s elbow slammed into the woman’s stomach, sending her flying to the side of the tunnel. In the blink of an eye, she seemed to ricochet off the tunnel wall, her leg poised for a kick. Her leg connected with the creature’s temple, and Scar winced at the wet, strangely muffled crack. He stared in bewilderment at the woman’s fighting style. It seemed too flashy and acrobatic to work outside well-regulated combat sports tournaments, but it was proving to be mercilessly effective.

His vision blurred. In the already dim tunnel, he barely made out the two figures darting around. Scar prided himself on having quick reflexes in combat. Although the thing was bulky and seemed out of shape, it had turned out to be faster than Scar himself. This woman had less than a fifth of the thing’s body mass, and flew around it like a hummingbird around most non-hummingbird objects. Not only that, but she seemed to be fighting strategically, targeting its face to disorient it before dodging behind and destroying its kidneys if it had any.

He tried to call out to the woman once again, to beg her to leave him. Scar had already accepted death. It wasn’t like he had anything left to lose.

A crackling thud sent the woman skidding into the water next to Scar. She risked a second to glance up at him, still grinning like a maniac, blood trickling out of her crooked smile. She held her chest and coughed, more blood splattering onto the ground.

“Man, I’m rusty,” She lamented, clutching her shoulder, “You didn’t see that. This guy is about to attack us, but he’s going to fall right into our hands. We stay where we are. I’ll count to three. On three, activate your arm.”

“One,” The creature barreled toward the two, and this is where Scar later claimed the blood loss really started taking its toll. 

“Two,” The fighter’s hands darkened to a glimmering obsidian color, the darkness spreading along her veins to her lower arms. Her hands crackled and glowed dull red as if she were burning from the inside out. Blue sparks shot out of Scar’s arm.

“Three,” Just as the creature reached where she crouched, Scar and the woman struck it head on. There was a burst of white hot light, and then darkness. 

***


	2. Tangled Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Ivy finds a potential connection to her biological family, desperation leads her into a rescue mission. She connects with some old friends to help create a diversion.

Chapter 2: Tangled Up

 

“Never laugh at live dragons.”  
― J.R.R. Tolkien

 

Scar was used to waking up and feeling a sense of dislocation. That was why, when he first regained consciousness and didn’t recognize his pleasantly warm, lavender-scented surroundings, he shrugged it off and sat up. Something tight clung to his chest and torso. Scar looked down. Soft white gauze wrapped around the majority of his upper half, and at a few intervals along his left leg. He inhaled sharply at the dark stains spotting far too much of his body. 

“Hey now, you are in no way ready to sit up like that,” Reprimanded a voice from somewhere behind him. Someone leapt over to him, knocking something over in the process.  
“Son of a-“ The metallic bang of the thing hitting the ground drowned out the woman’s cursing. She knelt over Scar, nursing a hurt hip. 

“Who the heck are you and why are you helping me?” Scar would have demanded, had he not made eye contact with the woman and forgotten what he was about to say. He wasn’t struck dumb in proximity to a beautiful woman or anything like that. In fact, the woman’s sharp cheekbones, petit lean stature, and intense eyes gave her a look that suggested more impishness than beauty. She had the look of someone who drew energy from everything but sleep. Her eyes shone red, deeper than Scar’s, but suggesting at least slight connection nonetheless. When Scar breathed in, the sweet, spicy scent of cinnamon hit him. Her chest was bandaged as well, the linen slightly bloodstained. As the woman chuckled at her own fall, Scar recognized that crooked smile.

“You,” he said simply. Then, “I don’t think I’m dead.”

“It’s not ‘you,’ it’s Cayenne,” she corrected, pulling locks of unruly ink-colored hair into a single braid down her back, “Also, you sound disappointed. Does that mean you don’t want me to change your bandages?”

Scar was silent for a moment, then sighed. “Cayenne. Like the pepper,” There was another lengthy pause. 

Cayenne perched on the balls of her feet, studying Scar. It looked like she was trying to suppress an amused smile, but the corners of her mouth twitched up anyway. Her amusement was a tad unsettling for some reason, but also the tiniest bit endearing. Scar became aware of soft ambient music flowing from a radio in the other room.  
“Stop looking at me like that. In fact, go away,” said Scar, finally. 

Cayenne raised an eyebrow, any semblance of a smile gone. Scar waited for her to argue.

“Ok,” she said. She rose, stretched, and wandered out of Scar’s field of vision. 

Once again, Scar accepted death. It would be long and agonizing this time, but at least he wouldn’t be putting Cayenne in harm’s way again. If Bradley’s military discovered that she had helped Scar, they would do unspeakable things to her. Scar had been on his own since the war. It was partially by choice: he felt the need to process his grief on his own, and to make his own reckless decisions without being held back. However, if Scar’s people knew that he was using alchemy, they would treat him as an outcast, so working alone wasn’t entirely his own decision. He still feared putting those who might accept him in danger. 

Scar inhaled, still only managing shallow breaths. The lack of oxygen made him feel light-headed. He glanced around, taking an absent-minded note of his surroundings in an attempt to ground himself. The floor underneath him was a mosaic of tiny earth-toned tiles. Next to him, paintings of serene plant life accented the rice paper wall. He rested on a small rubber mat. The only other things in the tiny room were an identical mat on the other side with a Cayenne-sized indentation in the rubber, and a bottle of Extra Spicy Cinnamon perfume. A faint trickle of flowing water overshadowing the music made its way through the rice paper wall. 

Scar attempted to clear his mind and focus on the sound of the water. It sounded eerily similar to the quiet sewer tunnel the second before the Thing ambushed him. Its beady eyes bored into him, not quite alive, but very not dead. The two red orbs were squeezed by a smile that was too large and full of teeth, dull and wet like rocks in a riverbed. He had never seen anything like that Thing with its impossible body proportions. Scar wondered whether it would return for him. He closed his eyes. 

A pair of warm hands began unwinding Scar’s bandages. He opened one eye slightly, then closed it again. “Alright man, your bandages are in desperate need of changing. I got you some new ones. Just relax, and you’ll make a full recovery in no time. Seriously.”

A wave of relief rushed through Scar, drowned out by guilt. 

“You’re endangering yourself by helping me,” Scar protested, still laying limp in Cayenne’s surprisingly muscular arms, “You have no idea what the Amestrian military does to people like us.”  
Cayenne’s voice was soft when she spoke, “That’s a bold assumption. Stop worrying about me, I know the risks,” She grabbed a rag that smelled like alcohol. “This is going to hurt. Also, don’t look at yourself. You might pass out.”

“That’s a bold a...” Scar’s voice faltered as he saw his body without the bandages. A few deep gashes leaked blood, but they were minor compared to the rest of the damage. A dusty purple mark the shape of a horseshoe covered his mid-chest to lower abdomen. The bones under the mark were crushed, undoubtedly leading to profuse internal bleeding and organ damage. Scar imagined he had only another day to live at best. 

“It’s much better than it was earlier,” Said Cayenne as she dabbed hydrogen peroxide on Scar’s gashes. “You will probably heal up enough to walk by tonight, thanks to this elixir. Drink up.” She handed Scar a little ceramic teacup full of bright blue-green liquid.

“That’s impossible,” Scar protested as he sized up the drink.

Cayenne pushed the drink to his lips. “It’s modern medicine. I’m no medic myself, but this is the best I can do. You might not be able to walk the same, or fight as well as you had before, but you’ll recover.”

Realizing that he was in no position to question this woman, Scar took a tentative sip of the blue stuff. He tasted mint, as strong as the elixir was bright. The minty feeling spread down his throat. He felt it in his wounds, and understood that this elixir was why he hadn’t noticed much pain earlier. 

Scar stole a glance at Cayenne. Her brow was knit in concentration as she redid Scar’s bandages with clean gauze. A few strands of black hair had freed themselves from her braid and landed in her face. Cayenne’s sharp features and quick movements reminded Scar of the velociraptor models he had seen in a museum with his brother years ago. She caught Scar looking, and met his eyes with her dark gaze.

“Thank you,” Scar blurted out. 

Cayenne smiled again, less crooked and softer. She stared intently at the bandages and replied, “Don’t thank me.”

*

“You have done this country a service,” Col. Mustang told Ivy. His black eyes glinted with dislike as he added, “Whether you wanted to, or not.”

Ivy laughed a wry, humorless laugh. She leaned over the desk, taking advantage of the fact that she was standing and the Colonel was sitting. Ivy shot straight to the point, demanding her end of the bargain. 

The Colonel snickered. “You really can’t be intimidating when you’re five feet tall.”

“Five foot one and a half. And so help me, if you don’t drop me of my charges and give me the antidote, I will take you down with me,” Ivy stood up to her full yet unimpressive height, gripping the edge of Mustang’s desk. She couldn’t help but enjoy the slight crackling of the wood as it darkened and crumbled beneath her fingers. A dangerous half-smile flashed across her face, exposing a gleaming set of teeth that seemed a little too sharp.

Keeping his irritatingly cool composure, the Colonel rose. “There can’t be enough hot-headed midgets in the world, can there? Ah, well. They can’t all be on my side. You want to play with fire, huh?” He smiled a smile that didn’t quite reach his dark flashing eyes.

Ivy’s eyes and toothy grin widened, and she leaned in closer. “You have no idea,” she snarled, hoping the Colonel would flinch or betray the tiniest sign of weakness. No such luck. He pulled out some paperwork and started ignoring her. Mustang’s eyes darted to the door at the sound of footsteps, and he shot up to attention. A chill ran through Ivy’s body, her evil smile frozen on her face.

“Füher King Bradley, Sir! I was not expecting you until-“ 

“Yes, Mustang, I know I scheduled the meeting two hours from now. I’m sorry to alarm you.”

That voice. Mustang’s wooden desk crumbled more quickly under Ivy’s hands while she begged herself not to turn around. It had been nearly five years since she had last heard that sharp, falsely bright tone. The last time Ivy heard him speak, it was during the first tactical meeting she had been allowed to attend, as he ordered the extermination of an entire race of people.

Mustang asked the Füher why he was early, and he replied, “I realized that I... I needed to see her more than I thought I did. I can’t expect you to understand much, without a traditional family-“  
“Traditional family, huh,” Ivy cut him off, staring out the window with her back toward the two men.

Everything in the room turned dead silent. Down the hall, a military officer bragged about his young daughter on the phone, only thickening the tension in Mustang’s office. Ivy balled up her fists, and she could feel her clothes crying out in protest at her spike in body temperature. Then, she smiled and shook her head.

“That’s so ironic, it’s almost funny. Traditional family,” Ivy tasted the words, and finding them not quite fitting, discarded them. She turned around, her temper mostly under control. “Hi, Dad, I’m back from prison and I’ve had a lot of time to reflect on the fact that I don’t want you in my life anymore. Give me the antidote, and we’re done here.”

Ivy’s father, if such a word could describe what Bradley really was, seemed to deflate slightly. He began to say something in desperation, but stopped himself.

Mustang glanced at Bradley. The Füher nodded. “You did hold up your end of the bargain, Ivy Bradley,” the Colonel ever so slightly emphasized the word “Bradley,” just enough to know he made Ivy inwardly cringe, “However, some senior military officials will be attending an important meeting this evening, and we can’t afford for you to ruin our business. Return to my office at eleven thirty, and I’ll give it to you then. You have my word.”

“And mine,” Said Bradley, still not seeming to have recovered from his shock of being so ill-received by his daughter. 

*

Ivy strolled out of the building at a leisurely pace, her demeanor cool and contemplative. Yelling at her dad felt great, and she regretted nothing. The station crawled with navy-clad military personnel, but Ivy didn’t bother disguising herself. If more people witnessed her freedom, it would be more difficult for Mustang and the Führer to go back on their promises. Besides, Ivy wasn’t entirely sure anyone would recognize her after being in prison for so long. After years of sparingly eating disgusting food, Ivy’s once lithe, muscular figure had thinned out, and her face had turned gaunt and sunken. She had also grown out her wild mass of black curls until it reached her lower back, and now wore it in a single long braid.

Ivy’s presence drew some double-takes and a couple of chokes on sips of coffee, but no one seemed certain that they were seeing the face of an infamous traitor. Instead, Ivy got that odd squinting stare that people do when they think they know someone, but they’re not quite sure or they’re not wearing their glasses. The man on the phone was still talking animatedly about his daughter, the door to his office ajar. His eyes landed on Ivy, and his voice faltered. Ivy gave her signature wink and finger guns in his direction as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

Ivy found that hailing a cab on the busy city streets was quite a bit easier than she had expected it to be, especially considering her spectral vagabond appearance. 

“Bradley Estate, please,” Ivy told the driver as she peered out the window. Seeing the sky, a pensive watercolor of cool greys, still sent a thrill through her freedom-deprived bones. Once she stocked up on supplies, she intended to run underneath that sky for as long as she wanted, and never look back.

The driver peeked at her from the rear view mirror, shrugged, and began driving in the desired direction. Ivy blinked in mild confusion.

“Not the weirdest thing I’ve seen around here lately,” the driver muttered to herself, adjusting the radio station away from the news. Loud, energetic swing music drifted through the speakers.  
Ivy considered asking her to leave the news on, but decided against it. She needed time to clear her mind so she could plan her next move. However, she couldn’t help but dance around a little in her seat to the catchy tune as Central City passed by the window.

Central’s downtown shops and public centers grew less chaotic and more scenic the farther they drove. Canals crisscrossing the roads and bridges lined with tasteful plants alerted Ivy that they had entered the Old City. Home wasn’t far. Eventually, trees and a sprinkling of old gravestones replaced the rustic buildings. The trees opened to peaceful clearings, gardens and ponds. Anger, shame, regret, excitement, relief, and above all, anxiety battled for balance in Ivy’s head as they passed through an ornate wrought iron gate, approaching the house. 

A clearing surrounded the house, landscaped with elaborate gardens and statues old and beautiful enough to be in museums. The cab halted in front of the grand marble stairs leading to the front door.

After thanking and paying the cab driver with money she had just pickpocketed from her dad, Ivy climbed the stairs. She had always felt like an intruder entering the estate, but she especially felt so now. Five years away from home, in prison no less, had changed Ivy, causing her to stray further from the rest of her family than ever. 

Ivy raised the brass dragon-shaped door knocker and let it fall with a satisfying clang. She laughed at herself, realizing that she had missed the little dragons. Then, she remembered the beautiful gardens, the elegant rooms, the clean furniture, the well-dressed staff. Malnutrition had dulled Ivy’s hair and thinned her already angular figure. Her fatigue-darkened eyes and hollow cheeks gave her the mad appearance of a vengeful ghost. She was fortunate enough to have washed up and changed her clothes since the sewer, but the smell lingered under all that cinnamon perfume. Ivy wondered if anyone would recognize her. Whether or not they did, she imagined they were likely to shoo her off their property. 

Just when Ivy lifted her hand to knock again, the door opened a crack. Ivy stepped back and tried to look as non-threatening as possible. 

A pair of wide dark eyes peeking from behind the door made Ivy’s stomach plummet. She was hoping he would be at school. Her posture became defensive, standing up straighter and crossing her arms over her chest.

The eyes lit up at the sight of Ivy, but not before a millisecond of haughty disdain. “Sister!” Selim tackled her in a hug, his head reaching her prominent ribs. “I knew you’d come back!”  
To Ivy, the unexpected physical contact with her brother felt like fingernails on a chalkboard sounded. Ivy froze before blundering her way through the hug, patting her brother on the back. He beckoned for her to come in. 

As Ivy entered the high-ceilinged foyer, she recognized the smiling faces of Rosemary the nanny and her daughter Elizabeth, a part-time maid studying to become a veterinarian. Ivy greeted them with more enthusiasm than she thought she would have.

“We’re sorry to bombard you as soon as you walk through the door, dear. I’ll ask the kitchen staff to prepare you a mango and mint smoothie. That’s still your favorite, right?”  
Fighting the urge to beg Rosemary for the smoothie accompanied by a whole platter of fresh fruit and some thin strips of marinated beef, Ivy set her filthy boots just outside the door. “It is, but please don’t go through the trouble of preparing anything for me. You all must be busy enough without my unannounced arrival. I’m going to go ahead and take a proper shower, and we can catch up afterward.” 

Ripping off the fabric clinging to her sweat-soaked body, Ivy tried to bask in the solitude of her own bathroom. She couldn’t help but glance around the room every few seconds and cross her arms over her chest, even though Ivy knew she was, for the first time in four-ish years, truly alone. Ivy shook her head, trying to rid herself of the feeling of being watched that had followed her from childhood to military training to prison, and back here. 

She studied the plants hanging by the sink, holding her head in her hands and trying to tell herself that it was all in her head. Shadows didn’t move. Nothing was out to get her at the moment. Her paranoia had always been in her head, and she had to snap out of it.

Light streamed into the room from the stained glass window, bathing the grey marble room in mint greens and turquoises. The soft mixture of blue-greens soothed Ivy slightly. She stood up, forcing the creeping feeling to an incessant tickle in the back of her mind. It was time for a hot bath. Ivy turned the water to the hottest temperature and poured soap from an opaque green bottle into the tub. She proceeded to give herself the thoroughest mint bubble bath she ever had. 

Wrapped up in a towel brushing her teeth, she noticed something next to her discarded clothes: her ratty old messenger bag was still full. Ivy sighed, finished brushing her teeth, and emptied it out. A heap of foul-smelling, blood-stained tatters plopped onto the floor, followed by the chink of something small and metallic against stone. Ivy blinked. She realized that she had forgotten to return or dispose of her target’s old clothes, but he didn’t seem like the type of person to carry jewelry around in his pocket. Everything else about the man struck Ivy as the practical and minimalistic, someone with no use for flashy bits of metal and semi-precious stone.

Ivy felt the trinket in the palm of her hand. It was warm to the touch, even against her higher-than average body temperature. A jolt of energy ran through Ivy, far more potent than even the best tea she ever drank. She glanced at it, and rushed to get dressed.

*

Confusion and determination enveloped Ivy’s mind to the extent that she barely noticed that her brother and servants stared at her expectantly from the dining room table, which was full of her favorite foods. Ivy was halfway out of the dining room before she froze and turned to the table.

“Where are you headed in such a hurry, dear?” Asked Erin, the head butler.

Thankfully, Ivy had always been a natural-born liar. “I’m just really anxious to check and see if my garden is still doing alright. I mean, I’m sure you guys took great care of it, but you know…” She grinned sheepishly, smoothing out her pine green pea coat. She pretended to just notice the food. “Oh, guys! I told you not to go through so much trouble! This is really sweet, though,” Ivy knew that she didn’t have time to sit down with them and eat an entire meal, so she’d have to think of a good excuse quickly.

“Sit down, Ivy,” Coaxed Salim, a sweet smile brightening his face, “The egg rolls will be cold soon, and I made them myself!”

Crap. Ivy loved egg rolls, even if Salim made them. Wait, she had an idea. “Do you mind if I grab one on my way out, then? I was going to grab some fresh herbs from my personal garden.”

The cook laughed her good-natured belly laugh, making Ivy’s stomach twist with guilt. “Oh, Ivy! Did you really think that we wouldn’t have already done that? Just sit down and enjoy yourself.”

Everyone was being too thoughtful for Ivy to just leave. Grudgingly, she sat down, painfully aware that every second she stalled, her probably very-much-alive biological mother and an unknown number of others were in more and more danger. She selected a small amount of food and tried to eat politely, but her body wanted to inhale as much food as possible. She hadn’t eaten any food so delicious in a long time.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how one may look at the situation, Ivy was no longer accustomed to eating such rich food. After her third plate, she felt a bit queasy.

The cook looked horrified at Ivy’s pained expression. “Is it not to your liking?” They whispered in the same way someone would whisper if they asked someone if their family member was dead.

Ivy tried to put a brave smile on, but her nausea made it end up looking more like a grimace. “No, it’s great. I’ve just been living off mystery stew and stale crackers for the past few years, and this food is quite rich,” Ivy explained as she clutched her stomach and dashed to the nearest restroom.

After she had finished doing her business, she washed up and listened to see if anyone had followed her. Thankfully, her younger brother despised vomiting, so he’d hopefully stay off her tail for at least half an hour. She made her way down the elegant Gothic-style hallway to her father’s section of the house. Ivy stopped at a door labeled “Armory.” A bit eccentric, Ivy was aware, but her dad’s extensive collection of weapons always came in handy.

The door was naturally locked, but what was the point of growing up with such a strict and secretive father if she didn’t know where he always hid the key? (The hall was lined with small stone statues of legendary beasts, from dragons to gargoyles to an out-of-place unicorn. Depending on the day of the week, the key was hidden in the mouth of a specific statue.) The key’s hiding place hadn’t changed since she was a little girl, learning to fight with her first bo staff and katana.

After all these years, the heavy oak doors still opened quietly for their size. Imagine a mansion’s personal library. Two stories: a main floor, and a reading loft extending around the walls, all about the size of three master bedrooms. Like the hallway, it was decorated like a medieval fortress, hewn from grey stone. Thin gothic windows with wine-colored stained glass cast an eerie deep red glow over the room, gargoyle statues and weapons of every imaginable sort replacing bookshelves. 

Ivy walked along the aisles, reminiscing of the days she had been a carefree little girl swiping a couple of small weapons, returning them a few days later, and never getting caught. Weapons training had made her feel safer as a kid, in control of herself and her surroundings. Nothing much had changed in that respect. She wondered if she’d ever return to this room after she left.

Ivy selected a length of rope, twin pocket flamethrowers that fit in the palms of her hands, a selection of about five knives, a dart gun and a few flasks of poison, a pair of golden gauntlets engraved with magpies, and a lock-picking kit. Everything fit nicely into her bag. She was about to head back to the door when she saw it swing open again. Soundlessly, Ivy dodged behind a particularly large and nasty-looking wyvern statue. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and she felt the same feeling that she had felt in the bathroom earlier, only stronger. Shadows didn’t move. She fought the urge to curl up in a ball.

“Wow Ivy,” Came her brother’s voice, “That was a disgusting escape plan that you had,” All of the bubbly innocence had evaporated from his voice, just like it had always done when the two of them were alone together. Ivy racked her brain for a way to get him to leave her alone. “I had a feeling you’d be down here,” he said as he sauntered down an aisle of throwing-knives, “Too helpless to go out on your own without a little help from Dad?” He was now walking down Ivy’s aisle. “And you realize, we are at a crucial stage in our plan. We can’t have you ruining it for us. That’s why I’m going to bring you to Father, no matter what dear Bradley says.”

Their father was Bradley, though. And who was this “we”?

Salim stood directly in front of Ivy’s wyvern statue, perfectly still. Ivy had a feeling that he knew exactly where she was. Suddenly, the familiar fear in the back of Ivy’s mind transformed to a near-panic that caused Ivy to double over. She couldn’t think straight. On the ground, the wyvern’s shadow churned and shifted, dark tendrils surging from it and grabbing hold of Ivy’s ankles. A shudder of nausea once again coursed through Ivy’s body, worse than when she threw up. Ivy struggled against the shadows, but it was no use. They dragged her out from behind the statue, right in front of Selim’s smug sneer. A black mass of more tendrils swirled and undulated him, these with eyes and mouths that seethed with hunger. Ivy barely held back a scream.

She was hallucinating again. This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real. Shadows. Did. Not. Move. Ivy swallowed back the fear that had consumed her as a child, and set her jaw. This wasn’t real. It would be over soon.

Salim laughed his familiar sweet little brother laugh, which somehow made him seem even more threatening. “My stupid, idealistic little sister. I’ve been wanting to do this to you ever since Bradley brought you back from the lab.”

The black shadows surrounding her brother twined around Ivy’s arms and legs like a group of snakes, except Ivy liked snakes. A tendril flicked across Ivy’s cheek. Blood trickled out of the cut. A cut? She was bleeding? This was real. Did that mean everything else was real? Every monster in the corner of her eye, every hint of movement under her bed, every time she felt like she was being watched or followed? Could Ivy hallucinate bleeding? One of the mouths opened wider than Ivy had thought possible, and leaned toward her.

“What the hell?” Ivy demanded, the absurdity of the situation shocking her out of speechlessness, “I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy,” The more she repeated the sentence, the more surreal it sounded. She tried to breathe evenly, but the grip of the shadows grew tighter. The mouth leaned in further. “You’re going to eat me?”

Salim licked his lips, which made Ivy incredibly uncomfortable in an entirely different way. “So convenient, right? I wouldn’t have to hide a body, and I could manipulate shadows AND fire!”

“How do you know about my fire?” Asked Ivy. She had only ever experimented with her strange pyrokinetic abilities in complete isolation. Earlier, she had admittedly used them to save a dying Scar from that one creepy guy, but Ivy seriously doubted that her vain little brother would want to smell like sewer.

“I may be about to kill you, but I don’t have to tell you everything. I’m not some idiot monologuing villain.”

“Huh,” muttered Ivy, trying to center herself enough to find an escape plan. Well, Ivy thought, since he already knows… Ivy breathed a white-hot flame in her brother’s direction. The shadows loosened their grip, allowing Ivy to grab her pack and propel herself toward the door, more bursts of fire behind her boosting her speed. A nearby rack of Medieval spears clattered to the floor, which Ivy was certain would alert the servants that something was up. Good thought Ivy, Anything that diverts Salim at this point will help me. She immediately felt guilty for thinking such a thing, and hoped against hope that all of the servants would be alright.

Ivy ran down the hall like she had never run before. Of course you would run, her dad’s voice echoed in her head, You call yourself brave. A hero, even. We both know that it’s all an act. Ivy snarled at the voice, her teeth sharpening and protruding from her skull. 

She didn’t care about hiding her abnormality at this point. Iridescent black scales grew from her arms and legs, and flames enveloped her body. On her way out, Ivy made sure that the carpet and wood panel floor were ablaze. Unless he was willing to break out of a high, thin window or had some other ability Ivy didn’t know about, Salim would be trapped in the armory just long enough for Ivy to escape.

She turned the corner, nearly incinerating her startled mother. 

“Hi, Mom! Tell the servants to get out of here. Salim’s a monster. Love you, gotta go!”

Her mother stood perfectly still, her mouth agape. To Ivy’s knowledge, Serena Bradley had never seen Ivy’s quirk. Ivy sped past her. There was no time to explain.

“Ivy, wait!” Her mom called. Ivy turned around, and her mother tossed her the car keys. “I’ll calm him down. I love you, too.”

Ivy paused, wondering if her mom knew exactly what she was getting into. She only seemed mildly surprised to see her adopted daughter covered in scales and flames, her pupil-less eyes glowing like lava, so something told Ivy that she might know how dangerous the rest of her family really was. In a split second decision, Ivy decided that her mom knew what she was doing. Ivy nodded and disappeared out the front door.

Having been in prison during the years people normally learned to drive, Ivy had never taken driving school. She turned the keys into the ignition and carefully tested out the pedals below her. Once she felt was more or less able to discern between the gas and the brake, Ivy slammed the gas and zoomed down the driveway, swerving to avoid a startled rabbit. She risked glancing over her shoulder, and immediately regretted it. Smoke poured out of her dad’s wing of the house. The fire alarm started to scream, followed by worried shouts from the servants. Guilt once again welled up inside Ivy’s gut. She had left her mom and house staff to fend for themselves against whatever Selim was. Ivy wasn’t even sure if she could beat him by herself.

A car horn’s indignant honk reminded Ivy that she was supposed to be paying attention to the road. Ivy took a few deep breaths. She tried to match the other cars’ speeds so she wouldn’t stand out.

After an turbulent drive during which Ivy had horribly scratched her mom’s car and nearly hit more than one pedestrian, she finally arrived at the police station. It had grown more overcast in the late afternoon light, casting soft shadows around the police station. Ivy noticed a couple of police cars parked outside the station, one of which was occupied by a pair of women eying Ivy with narrowed eyes and hands on their guns. Ivy smiled and waved. She wasn’t doing anything illegal… yet.

“Hello,” said Ivy to the receptionist at the front desk, “Is what’s-his-face… Mustard? Mus-“

“Mustang,” said the receptionist through a yawn. His bleary eyes glared at Ivy as if she had interrupted a particularly exciting daydream of his.

“Ah, Mustang. Like the horse. I should grab a carrot for the next time I see him. I’ll probably forget that soon, but that’s life for you. Anyway, is Mustang in his office?”

The receptionist’s agonizingly slow hand moved to dial Mustang’s number. Ivy had the feeling that work was the last place this man wanted to be. Ivy began rapidly tapping her foot.  
After an eternity of five minutes, the receptionist looked up. “He’s not picking up. If you need him, he probably went to the Interrogation Center. Want me to tell him you dropped by?”

The Interrogation Center. Of course. How could she not have foreseen this? Ivy reminded herself to remain calm, and replied in a cool tone that matched her consciously casual body language. “That won’t be necessary. In fact, just forget we talked and get back to your daydream.”

The receptionist gave Ivy a faint “Mhm,” and his eyes lost focus.

Ivy made her way down the hall that lead to the Colonel’s office, acting as if she didn’t think she was doing anything illegal. Acting and lying tended to come naturally to anyone with strict parents, and Ivy’s upbringing was one of the strictest in the country. Ivy turned the door handle to Mustang’s office. It was locked. Ivy dug around in a coat pocket until she found her lock-picking tools, looked around the hall to check for witnesses, and got to work on the lock.

Ivy rolled her eyes as she worked. Of course this guy would give himself a thief-resistant lock. It was far from unbreakable, but the process would take longer than she had planned.  
A nauseating pain shot through Ivy’s stomach, spreading out to her limbs. Ivy doubled over, her muscles convulsing.

“Everything alright out there?” Asked a male voice a little ways down the hall.

Ivy stood as straight as she could, attempting to keep her cool demeanor as the poison from the tea began to break down her insides. She smiled at the concerned man poking his head out of his office.

Ivy nodded, avoiding opening her mouth for fear that doing so would induce vomiting.

The man stepped out of his office, sporting the rankings of a detective, pushing his rectangular glasses higher on his face. He frowned at Ivy. “You don’t look too good. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I’m on my period. There’s so much blood, and my insides are tearing themselves apart, and I’m so emotional. I appreciate the concern, but I just need time, you know?” Ivy broke down and started crying, making sure to stand in the way of the lock she had been picking. The excuse was fabricated, but the tears were a late response to the shock and terror of earlier.

The detective gave Ivy a loose, gentle hug and apologized. “I can only imagine the amount of pain you’re in. My wife gets very emotional on her period, too, so I always carry these around,” he pulled a pad and a couple of chocolates out of his pocket and handed them to Ivy. “I hope you feel better,” he said, returning to his office with a soft goodbye smile.

Ivy stood frozen in confusion, then remembered that she had a lock to pick. How did some people just go out of their way to be kind? She resolved to look out for him in the future. Trust like that might get him killed one day. The pain and muscle spasms were slowly dying down, but returned in full force every couple of minutes.

Click! went the lock after nearly ten agonizing minutes. Ivy turned her head left, then right, then slipped into the Colonel’s office. She spent another fifteen minutes ransacking the office for the antidote, interrupted by occasional bursts of pain. Finally, Ivy found a small opaque bottle hidden in a ceiling tile labelled “strychnine antidote.” This had to be it. Ivy unscrewed the top and groaned.

Any antidote that might have been in the bottle was gone, replaced by a rolled up piece of paper that read the following:  
“Miss Bradley: You underestimate me so much it kind of hurts my feelings, except not really because I know my own intelligence. I took the antidote with me to the Interrogation Center to have a nice chat with your new friend. This is the only known antidote to strychnine in Amestris, so don’t bother looking for escape options. If you want to live past midnight, you are going to have to take the antidote directly from me on my terms. Any more funny business, and I will destroy the antidote. Yours, Roy.”

Outside the police station, Ivy inserted a few coins into the phone booth and dialed a number she knew by heart. The person on the other end took their time picking up, and Ivy was tired of wasting time. She sighed and rested her head on the cool metal side of the booth.

A smooth, rather cocky man’s voice with a slight Central accent answered, “Our Holy Father’s Charity, how may we help you benefit humanity today?”

“So you answer your own phone now. Good for you. Listen, you owe me one.”

The man laughed as he recognized Ivy’s distinct voice on the other side of the phone. “That’s a voice I didn’t expect to hear again. Welcome back to the real world. Chances are, you’re not about to ask me for some booze, are you?”

Ivy rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help grinning a little at hearing her old friend’s voice again. “You know perfectly well that my occupation requires constant sobriety. Besides, I’m going to need my money to buy travelling necessities if I make it past tonight. But that’s not important right now. Do you still run that office a block from the Interrogation Center?”

Ivy could almost hear Greed wince on the other side of the phone. “I really don’t like where this is going, but I suppose I don’t have much of a choice.”

“Heh. You got that right, man. Meet me there in ten minutes, and bring your best henchpeople.”

Greed started to protest that they were his crew, not his henchpeople, but Ivy was pressed for time and hung up.

***

Scar wasn’t the type of person to enjoy waking up in handcuffs. His brain still fuzzy from the medicine and sleep, he tried to piece together what the handcuffs and bright light on his face meant. Even more confusing, his right arm had gone numb as if he had slept on it. Scar tried to move his fingers, but they didn’t respond.

He would have shot up and looked around if sturdy iron bands around his chest and legs weren’t holding him down.

“Surprise!” came a smug male voice from beyond Scar’s line of vision. “You really did put up a fight. Until you got beaten by a woman.”

“What does her gender have to do with anything?” Snapped Scar, still struggling against the restraints. He may have been dazed and confused, but he was never too out of it to call out sexism.

The voice laughed. “What does her… wow. You must be so embarrassed. You criminals all have a weak streak, don’t you? That makes my job easier,” The man leaned over until Scar could see his face, ghostly in the spotlight. A mouth, too wide for the sallow square face, was lined with a row of gold, unnaturally uniform teeth, “This can either go really well for you, or it will be more agonizing than whatever did that to your torso. I know you’ve been sneaking supplies to refugee camps, and you’re going to tell me where they are.”

Scar was fairly, incorrectly, certain that he had been through worse before. He curled his lip, seething with hatred. “Do your worst.” 

*

Ivy paced around Greed’s back office, muttering to herself in a speed no one else in the room could quite follow. “He won’t last ten minutes in there, so this needs to be a quick plan. Quick and simple. I’ve memorized the regular patrol pattern of the guards, but chances are they know that and changed it up, anticipating my retaliation. I have a floorplan of the Interrogation Center,” Ivy pulled a map out of a pocket in her pine green coat, unfolding it on the mahogany table cluttered with semiprecious stones and gaudy nic nacs, “It pays to raid Dad’s study every now and then, just in case. You all remember the basic methods and patrol patterns of the guards, correct?”

The man Ivy was addressing leaned against the wall, inspecting his nails over his small circular black glasses. Without looking up at Ivy, he responded in a nonchalant tone, “I can’t say I’ve memorized the exact patterns of the guards when I was in there. Who the hell can remember all that?”

A ragtag group of five of the most unusual-looking individuals one might encounter in a lifetime sat around the polished mahogany table, dim green light illuminating their faces in odd ways. A rather small man in a perfectly-fitted amber suit licked his hand and ran it over one of his pointy black ears. He exchanged glances with one of the tallest and most muscular people Ivy had ever seen, who seemed to be using a nail file to sharpen the glistening curved horns protruding from her head. A girl in her late teens with no glaringly obvious abnormalities other than symmetrical streaks of bright green in her short hair closed the textbook she had been scanning and stood up. 

“I haven’t completely memorized them either, but I’m close. Any of the movement patterns I forget, I can counter with my alchemy,” she said, sipping her cup of tea before turning to Ivy, “You must be Ivy. It’s nice to finally meet you. My name is Jade. Ex-state alchemist, currently pursuing a psychology and botany double-major. I just started working for Greed a couple of weeks ago.”

Ivy nodded to Jade. “Hi. The thing to remember is that I’m disposable to the military now. If Mustang even suspects I’m up to something, I doubt he’ll hesitate to destroy the-” Ivy doubled over, her knees weak beneath her. Her body tried to force her to vomit, but there was nothing else inside of her. A few drops of blood splattered on the map and distasteful golden carpeting, causing a slight scream of indignation to escape Greed’s mouth.

While Greed looked too confused and upset about his carpet to do anything, Jade stepped forward, placing a hand on Ivy’s midsection. The pain eased up just enough to allow Ivy to stand. Jade flopped down in a chair, giving a faint cough. Before Ivy could thank her and ask her what she just did, Greed spoke up.

“So we make it look like this is a separate operation, and draw their forces away from the target. Sal, the dart gun?”

A tall, scruffy man with eyes that moved independently of each other nodded and pulled a dart gun out of their pocket. “I’ll sneak in and take out Mustang during the distraction once Jade figures out his location.”

“And I’ll focus on getting Scar to safety. Or just make sure he can’t be interrogated. Either way works, but you know my rule. Avoid collateral damage whenever possible.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, that's the end of this chapter, my dudes


	3. Stumbling is Not Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prison heist goes horribly wrong

Scar’s torturer was unnervingly deliberate, treating the preparation work like a conductor assembling his orchestra. Imminent pain made everything seem surreal for Scar, which explained why he thought of such an out-of-place analogy. He waited, strapped flat on his back by cold metal restraints, for what could have been anywhere between two minutes to an hour. Time passed differently in the Interrogation Center. Scar’s eyes tried to look at everything but the alchemist in the lab coat organizing his torture tools, but the entire room was covered in blinding white lights and mirrors. He couldn’t take his eyes off the little old man, who hummed to himself as he disinfected the tools.

“I’ll bet you’re wondering why we disinfect these if we don’t plan on keeping you around, huh?” The doctor grinned at Scar, speaking in the same tone he might use with an interested nephew. Scar’s body started to feel light and tingly from panic as the man went on, “Doesn’t it seem like a waste of resources?”

Scar decided that silence was the best response to such a chilling question.

The man sighed and shook his head. “Kids these days,” he muttered to himself, “They have no appreciation for the fine art of biological manipulation.”

Scar tensed up, sucking in a sudden breath of air. He thought he was just going to be tortured and killed. Were they actually going to make him into some kind of living horror like that poor little girl? He tried to mask his repulsion as the man held a syringe, thicker and longer than any Scar had ever seen, full of gleaming liquid up to the light. It shifted colors like liquid opal.

The man flashed Scar a cold golden smile. “You’re a little more motivated to talk now, aren’t ya kid? Don’t worry about the needle, it’s just going to shut down your body’s immune response for about an hour so it won’t reject any foreign objects. Unless you happened to remember where those rats of yours are nesting.”

Although he knew struggling was pointless, Scar tried one last time to break his restraints. His body fell limp. “You will suffer eternal damnation for this,” Scar spat, trying to stop himself from shaking as the doctor slid the needle into his arm. Scar had been ready to accept death, and possibly even torture, but he had not been prepared for his body to turn into something unnatural, living out the rest of his existence in a liminal state between human and inhuman. He reminded himself of the innocent people--his people--who were counting on his silence. Scar felt a wave of uncertainty rush through him with the opalescent liquid.

*

With more than a little regret, Greed slid his circular sunglasses off his face and placed them on a gold-plated statue next to his front door. As he tied an apron around his waist, he said to the now blurry statue, “Looking good!”

“You’re not talking to that statue again, are you?” came Jade’s voice from behind Greed in a friendly teasing tone.

Greed leaned against the wall with an almost convincingly cool air. “Yeah. Did you get the shoeshine supplies?”

Jade gestured to a cart that functioned as a mobile shoeshine station, complete with shoe polish, chairs, rags, and weapons in a hidden compartment. Alastar the cat chimera had perched himself in one of the leather chairs, trying on hats to cover up his silky black ears. He handed a fedora to Greed.

“You know I hate hat hair. And a fedora? Do I really seem like that kind of guy?”

A meaningful look from his crew made Greed eventually shrug and nod, still refusing to wear a hat.

Jade went around inspecting everyone’s disguises, straightening fake mustaches and tightening bowties. When she got to Greed, she gave him a thoughtful frown. “Are you sure you’ll be alright without your glasses?”

“Heh,” Greed grinned, crossing his arms, “I wear those because they look cool. Only nerds like Ivy need glasses to see,” Greed paused, making a face like he was stumped on a math problem, “Wait, don’t tell me, Ivy doesn’t actually wear glasses. Yes she does… no she doesn’t…”

Jade got in the driver’s seat of the mobile shoeshine station and started pedaling out the door, gesturing for Greed to hop in. Alsastar chuckled at Greed’s forgetfulness, but immediately stopped once Greed gave him an angry but unfocused stare from the passenger’s seat.

*

The officer in charge of inspecting vehicles entering the Interrogation Center premises studied Greed’s fake permit with narrowed eyes. She pushed her glasses further up her nose and scowled at the driver of the shoeshine cart. “Your permit seems legit, but I’m afraid that you have been randomly selected for a vehicle inspection, Mr….” The guard checked the permit again, “Wolf…”

The undercover mob boss smirked and smoothed back his spiky black hair. “That’s right. The name’s Aurelius Wolf, and I’m the boss of this gig. I encounter a lot of beautiful people in my line of work, but might I say, there is something special about your beauty that sets you apart from the rest of them,” Greed reached to pull down his shades, forgetting that he had taken them off. It looked a bit like he smacked himself in the face, but played it off like he meant to do that, “It’s those deep obsidian eyes of yours. They look like they could hold-”

Jade elbowed Greed in the stomach, sensing that the guard was getting impatient.

“A galaxy!” he squeaked.

The guard rolled her eyes and motioned for the three occupants to exit the cart. “Flirting won’t get you out of the inspection.”

On her way out, Jade asked the guard a question. As the guard met Jade’s soft, thoughtful eyes to answer, her face turned blank for a few moments. Then, after blinking rapidly, the guard shook her head and returned to her post, motioning for the team to go ahead.

Greed stared at the ex-state alchemist in disbelief. “You never told me you could had mind control powers!”

Jade put a finger to her lips, and pedaled their way inside. They stopped in a wide hallway and began to set up shop when they heard a voice all of them recognized, but none of them had heard in person before. It was simultaneously full of bright warmth and chilling in the back of the mind.

“A shoeshine stand! How wonderful! I was hoping we would get one soon. How much do you charge?”

“Fuhrer King Bradley!” Exclaimed Greed, bringing his hand up in a salute, a habit left over from his earlier days, “It’s ten thousand per shine, but I’ll bring it down to eight thousand for the leader of our country. A real bargain!” He gave the Fuhrer his signature charming salesman’s smile.

Alastar shook his head. “What he means to say is five cens.”

Greed looked offended, but in this rare circumstance, knew to hold his tongue. The Fuhrer, who was quite a bit shorter than Greed had imagined him, took out the two swords strapped to his back and leaned them against the side of the cart. The ex-prison guard looked at the Fuhrer’s black shoes, then grabbed a shimmering golden polish. The Fuhrer looked at it and nodded.

“Why not? I could go for something bright and silly right now. You see, my daughter was just released from prison, and she still acts like she hates me. I understand she disagreed with me over the Ishballan extermination, but we’d never let political differences get in the way of our relationship before.”

“Uh huh,” said Greed, who wasn’t paying attention to what the Fuhrer was saying. In fact, he wasn’t even paying attention to the shoe shining job. His brain automatically started zoning out as soon as he heard the Fuhrer talking. Greed wasn’t quite sure why, but there was something about this man’s voice that made him bored and annoyed.

“We used to have debates for fun! That used to be Ivy’s favorite part of the evening! And who taught her everything she knows? I did. Without me, she wouldn’t have had the tactical and martial skill to counter the Ishballan extermination. Yet she refuses to acknowledge that. I could say I’m even proud of her for organizing such strong resistance. Should I tell her that?”

“Uh huh.”

Alastar stood up. “Hey Jacqueline, why don’t you come with me to fill a bucket of water to wash our dirty rags?”

Jade nodded. “Steve, you stay here with Aurelius and help this nice man work out his family life,” She gave Greed and Sal a smile that was too bright, and widened her eyes as if to add emphasis to the last part of her sentence.

“Huh? Oh, ok. Good suggestion, Number Two.” Said Greed, grudgingly continuing to pretend to listen to the Fuhrer talk.

“You think so? Thank you for your advice, Aurelius. Wow, my shoes look… interesting,” This statement was true, unless you don’t find streaky golden sparkly shoes on the feet of the second most dangerous man in Amestris interesting.

Greed’s eyes wandered over to Sal, who was waving to get Greed’s attention and pointing at the Fuhrer’s swords and drawing a line across his throat. Greed’s eyes widened, and turned to stare at Fuhrer Bradley’s shoes in confusion. What could Sal have meant with those motions? Give the Fuhrer a necklace? Greed liked all of his jewelry too much to give it away to his friend’s irritating dad. Steal his swords? Tempting, but Greed had a debt to repay.

“Ohhhh,” Greed murmured to himself as he smudged the golden polish around the Fuhrer’s shoes, “Hey, Fuhrer,” he said, making sure his knife was still tucked up his sleeve.

Fuhrer Bradley smiled a soft, friendly half-smile that lit up his face in an all too familiar way. Greed couldn’t help but be reminded of his friend. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of such an uncomfortable resemblance. “Yes, Mr. Aurelius?”

The mob boss lunged forward, his dagger aimed at the Fuhrer’s throat. “Knife to meet you!”

Greed had made a lot of mistakes over the 200 year course of his life. Most of them happened so long ago that he didn’t even remember them. Virtual immortality is, in a way, like being a blackout drunk. You know that you have done outrageous things in the past, but if someone asks you if you toppled a city government or had a mental breakdown in the middle of an art museum, you could only guess what you did because it has been so long since you did the thing. The years and bad decisions all seemed to blend together. Despite Greed’s ambiguous knowledge about his own past actions, he was certain of one thing. He had never made as big of a mistake as lunging at Fuhrer King Bradley with nothing but a knife and a bad pun.

Without breaking his placid facial expression, the Fuhrer blocked Greed’s knife with expert response time. He kept a hold of his arm and exploited Greed’s pressure points to take the knife and send him flying into Sal before Greed had time to activate his Ultimate Shield. The mob boss and his crew member skidded down the linoleum hallway while the Fuhrer rose to his feet and unsheathed his swords.

“Shit,” Greed muttered, then turned to his friend, “Yes, assassinate the Fuhrer. What a great idea!”

Sal fumbled around in his jacket for his gun. “That’s not what I meant to do at all! I was suggesting that you distracted him while I… forget it. This man looks like he’s not kidding around. Let’s focus on not dying.”

The Fuhrer dashed toward the two men, his katanas flying through the air so quickly that neither Greed nor Sal could keep tabs on them. Greed activated his Ultimate Shield and focused on trying to block as many of the slices as he could, which wasn’t terribly many. Rapid clashes of steel against carbon hurt Greed’s ears. The Fuhrer’s fighting style was streamlined and efficient, matching his aging physique. However, this didn’t make him any less of a formidable opponent.

“The Ultimate Shield, huh?” the Fuhrer observed, sparks flying from his swords as they assaulted Greed’s carbon body, “Knife to meet you too, Greed the Avaricious.”

Greed paused in surprise, just long enough for a well-timed slice to send him crashing against the floor. His shield started to fade. He grimaced, standing up and racked his brain for a way out of death. Even facing his demise, Greed still managed a cocky smirk. “Ah, so my reputation precedes me. Any ideas, Sal?”

By now, the prison security had gotten wind of the attempted assassination, and uniformed women and men were lined up on either side of the hallway, their guns pointed at Greed and Sal. Sal’s eyes lit up, and he nodded. However, no one ended up finding out what Sal’s plan was. Jade and Alastar came jogging down the hallway, chased by even more guards.

“Time to wrap it up, Boss!” Called Jade. Upon seeing the Fuhrer standing in the middle of the hallway brandishing bloody katanas, she made a small noise.

To everyone’s surprise, the Fuhrer started laughing. “Ahhh, I see what this is about now. Guards! This is no assassination attempt. This was a distraction,” He pointed a sword at Greed, “You’re an ally of my daughter’s, aren’t you? Everyone, I can handle these two. Go after the Jasmine Alchemist, and try to track down my daughter! That weakling Ishballan is probably slowing her down.”

Any guard would have to be insane or a half-human adopted daughter not to obey the Fuhrer once they had seen his combat capabilities. They focused their attention on Jade and Alastar, who disappeared down the hallway.

“There are too many guards! Jade and Alastar won’t be able to make it out!” Sal hissed.

Greed eyed the Fuhrer, who was standing eerily still in the middle of the hall. “We have our own problems to worry about. And I have an idea of how to beat him.”

The Fuhrer smirked and ran toward them once again, only missing Sal because the chameleon chimera stuck his tongue to the ceiling and swung across the hallway. Now, the Fuhrer was standing between Greed and Sal, his attention focused on Greed. The homunculus’ eyes narrowed.

“You haven’t figured out my weakness yet. I must admit, I’m slightly disappointed,” said Greed as he parried the Fuhrer’s blows with gradually worsening accuracy.

The Fuhrer smiled again, a dangerous, knowing smile far more intimidating than any other face he could have made. He chuckled as he swung his swords in a graceful arc. “Oh I know your weaknesses, Greed. Your fighting style itself is a weakness. You rely on your endurance, but even that is severely lacking. I’m just trying to savor this fight. Speaking of which…” Without taking the time to look behind him, Fuhrer Bradley launched a sword at Sal, pinning him against the wall through his left shoulder.

Greed cried out, then shook with rage. “You should not have done that,” he growled through gritted teeth. He ran at the Fuhrer, this time bypassing the lightning quick sword strikes and landing a solid hit across the temple.

The older man staggered back a little, chuckling like a maniac again. His sea green eye blazed with delight. “There you go! All you needed was a little motivation!”

The prison’s fluorescent light flickered on Greed’s shoeshine station, giving the soft green paint an ectoplasmic glow. Greed eyed his adversary, careful not to glance at the shoeshine station standing between himself and Bradley and give himself away. He tried to recall what Jade had said about the station. They kept a handful of powerful weapons in the compartment right next to the shoe polish. If Greed could get to it before the Fuhrer, he could potentially find something to create a distraction long enough to pull Sal free and run. Greed was terrible at charades, but he had to try something.

He looked at Sal and made wild gestures with his arms of what he hoped looked like fireworks. The chameleon chimera stuck out his tongue in confusion, then snapped it back into his mouth. He opened his mouth to create a terrifying blend of a human and lizard scream, enough to make most people contemplate the inevitability of death. The Fuhrer only turned around in brief surprise, but that was just the beginning of the distraction. Sal’s body shifted from that of someone very clearly human to that of a human-sized chameleon in pants. He continued screaming as shades of brilliant crimson, blues so bright they hurt onlookers’ eyes, and yellows that rivaled the sun, lit up his scales like fireworks. The Fuhrer, of course, knew that this was only a distraction, but it was impossible to look away.

Greed unlocked the compartment and selected what looked like a grenade. He called out to the man gaping at Sal’s blinding display. Once the Fuhrer regained focus on the fight, Greed pulled the pin and threw it down the hall, pulled the sword out of Sal, and ran for it.

The hall, shoeshine stand, Fuhrer, and all, erupted into flames. Greed didn’t bother looking back to check whether or not Ivy’s father survived the blast. He had to get Sal somewhere safe as quickly as possible. At the moment, nothing else mattered.

*


End file.
